the bottomless plunge to oblivion?
It shook me. I devoured every word concerning the suicide, and then I went through it again very carefully to see if I could read anything between the lines.
I could find nothing, feel nothing, sense nothing that might implicate me in the affair. It had happened around four in the afternoon, according to the newspaper. The maid was out of the house at the time. Dorris had simply gone to her room, locked herself in and shot herself with that toy automatic. The reporter quoted the maid as saying that Mrs. Venci had not been herself since her husband was killed, and it was implied that grief had been the driving motive behind the act of self-destruction.
It was perfectly simple. The same story about the grief-stricken widow is printed every day, someplace or other.... It is so simple, I thought, that the whole thing stinks. Dorris Venci had been incapable of doing a thing simple and cleanly—I knew that better than any person alive.
My experience with Stephen Calvart had made me acutely aware of the importance of staying alive. A man had to use his brain; and that is exactly what I did. If this thing was going to turn out to be more than a simple suicide, I had to know about it, and fast.
The first thing I did was pick up the phone and call Dorris's number. That maid, that sour faced maid of Dorris's, she was the one who might be able to straighten me out. Finding the maid at the Venci house tonight was a longshot chance, and this wasn't the night for longshots to come in. I let the phone ring at least a dozen times and finally hung up.
What had been that maid's name, anyway. Ethel? Edith? Ellen? That was it, Ellen, but I had no idea what her last name was or where she might be.
But the police would know. The idea of going to the police for information amused me. I grinned, feeling a bit of the old excitement and elation return as I dialed the operator and got the number.
“Hello,” I said soberly, “may I speak to the officer in charge of the Venci case?”
“Who's callin', please?”
“My name is Robert Manley. You see, I just got the news not more than two hours, ago, in this evening's paper, the Lake City Journal-Times, and I came just as fast as I could, but you see there was some sort of mix-up at the bus station, I missed my connection at Midburg, and that's the reason...”
“Hold on a minute, will you! Now what's this about the Venci case?”
“That's what I was telling you, officer. You see my Aunt Ellen has been in Mrs. Venci's employ all these years and...”
“Will you please try to calm down, sir. Your Aunt Ellen, you said. Do you mean Ellen Foster, the Venci maid?”
“Yes, of course, Aunt Ellen Foster. You see I live in Midburg, and Aunt Ellen is my aunt. My, that is a ridiculous statement, isn't it, officer, but I'm so upset, really, and Aunt Ellen was so devoted to Mrs. Venci...”
“Please, sir,” the voice said wearily, “just what is it you're trying to say?”
“Why I want to know where my Aunt Ellen is, of course! I called the Venci residence, but of course she wasn't there, what with that awful...”
“All right, all right!” he almost growled. “Just hold on a minute.”
I held on, grinning.
“Here it is,” he said after a moment. “The investigating officer lists Mrs. Foster's present address as 1214 Stanley Road, a boarding house there, I believe.”
“And the phone number, officer. I feel that I simply must call my aunt right away or...”
“Jackson 4-1952.”
“Thank you, officer, thank you very much!”
He groaned and hung up.
Yes sir, if you want information on police matters, then go to the police! Very obliging people, the police. I don't know what I would do without them! Still grinning, I hung up and after a few seconds dialed Jackson 4- 1952.
“Hello...” A toneless voice, peevish and edged with bitterness.
“Mrs. Foster?”
She admitted grudgingly that she was Mrs. Foster and that she had been Mrs. Venci's maid, then I identified myself as Captain Barlow of the police and that didn't do anything to sweeten her mood.
“Sir,” she snapped, “I have nothing more to say about that horrible... accident. I told the police all I know, everything.”
“Everything, Mrs. Foster?”
Now her tone was indignant, but she didn't seem to think it strange that a police officer would do his questioning over a telephone, and at this time of night. “Sir,” she snapped, biting into the word, “I'm sure I don't know what you mean!”
“No offense at all, Mrs. Foster,” I said soothingly, “and we realize that you have been through a lot, the shock and all. Of course we have your statement in our files, but I would appreciate it very much if you would tell it to me again, in your own words.”
“Is this absolutely necessary, Captain? Really, I was most thorough in my report to the police a mere few hours ago. Couldn't it wait until tomorrow, at least.”
“I'm afraid not, Mrs. Foster,” I said patiently. “This is an imposition on you, we realize it, and that is exactly the reason we decided not to call in person at this hour. I do hope you understand, Mrs. Foster, that police business must necessarily seem rather unusual at times to the citizen, but I assure you...”
“All right, Captain,” she relented. “I have been aroused and awakened, and now please let us be as brief as possible. Actually, I do not see that I can add to my original statement... however, it was around three this afternoon when Mrs. Venci called me upstairs and asked about the shopping. As it happens, I was just going out to do the day's shopping, but she asked me to wait. She was writing a letter, she said. She wanted to finish the letter and have me mail it on the way to the market.”
My heart missed a beat. The news story had not mentioned a letter.
“... Mrs. Foster,” I said, “did you mail this letter, as Mrs. Venci asked you to do?”
“Of course. It's all in my original statement.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling my muscles begin to tighten. “Yes, of course.”
“It's rather interesting,” she admitted grudgingly, “that you should call at this particular time, Captain. This afternoon your policemen were extremely curious about that letter, although I couldn't imagine why—and still can't, for that matter. They seemed anxious to know to whom the letter was addressed. I tried and tried to remember, but the name simply wouldn't come to me. Then, just as you called, a few moments ago, the strangest thing happened. The name came to me, Captain.”
I heard myself saying, It did, Mrs. Foster?”
“Yes. I remember glancing at the envelope, just to be sure that it was properly addressed for mailing. Keaslo. I feel quite sure that was the name.”
It rang no bell. The name of Keaslo meant absolutely nothing to me. I took a long, deep breath. Maybe I was getting myself worked up over nothing. I said, “How about the first name or the address? Do you remember them.”
“No, I'm afraid not, Captain. After all, it was just a glance, a mere precaution.”
“I understand, Mrs. Foster. But about the address, was it local or out of town delivery? Can you remember that?”
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Why, I believe it was a local address, one here in Lake City. But of course I can't be certain.”
“... Yes.” I heard a curious pounding, and then realized that it was my heart knocking against my ribs. “Yes, I understand. Well, probably it means nothing at all, Mrs. Foster. Thank you very much for your co-operation.”
“I should have called the police in any event, Captain,” she said. “After my remembering the name, I mean.”
“Oh, you needn't do that,” I said quickly. “After all, I do have the information now, I mean, and...” I didn't go on. I could feel her hanging there in a sort of thoughtful vacuum. Mrs. Foster, is something wrong?”
